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‘I can only say that all the injuries present are fully explained by the body striking the rocks fifty or sixty feet below.’
‘There remains the question of suicide?’
‘That is, of course, perfectly possible. Whether the deceased walked over the edge or threw himself over is a matter on which I can say nothing.’
Robert Jones was called next.
Bobby explained that he had been playing golf with the doctor and had sliced his ball towards the sea. A mist was rising at the time and it was difficult to see. He thought he heard a cry, and for a moment wondered if his ball could have hit anybody coming along the footpath. He had decided, however, that it could not possibly have travelled so far.
‘Did you find the ball?’
‘Yes, it was about a hundred yards short of the footpath.’
He then described how they had driven from the next tee and how he himself had driven into the chasm.
Here the coroner stopped him since his evidence would have been a repetition of the doctor’s. He questioned him closely, however, as to the cry he had heard or thought he heard.
‘It was just a cry.’
‘A cry for help?’
‘Oh, no. Just a sort of shout, you know. In fact I wasn’t quite sure I heard it.’
‘A startled kind of cry?’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Bobby gratefully. ‘Sort of noise a fellow might let out if a ball hit him unexpectedly.’
‘Or if he took a step into nothingness when he thought he was on a path?’
‘Yes.’
Then, having explained that the man actually died about five minutes after the doctor left to get help, Bobby’s ordeal came to an end.
The coroner was by now anxious to get on with a perfectly straightforward business.
Mrs Leo Cayman was called.
Bobby gave a gasp of acute disappointment. Where was the face of the photo that had tumbled from the dead man’s pocket? Photographers, thought Bobby disgustedly, were the worst kind of liars. The photo obviously must have been taken some years ago, but even then it was hard to believe that that charming wide-eyed beauty could have become this brazen-looking woman with plucked eyebrows and obviously dyed hair. Time, thought Bobby suddenly, was a very frightening thing. What would Frankie, for instance, look like in twenty years’ time? He gave a little shiver.
Meanwhile, Amelia Cayman, of 17 St Leonard’s Gardens, Paddington, was giving evidence.
Deceased was her only brother, Alexander Pritchard. She had last seen her brother the day before the tragedy when he had announced his intention of going for a walking tour in Wales. Her brother had recently returned from the East.
‘Did he seem in a happy and normal state of mind?’
‘Oh, quite. Alex was always cheerful.’
‘So far as you know, he had nothing on his mind?’
‘Oh! I’m sure he hadn’t. He was looking forward to his trip.’
‘There have been no money troubles – or other troubles of any kind in his life recently?’
‘Well, really I couldn’t say as to that,’ said Mrs Cayman. ‘You see, he’d only just come back, and before that I hadn’t seen him for ten years and he was never one much for writing. But he took me out to theatres and lunches in London and gave me one or two presents, so I don’t think he could have been short of money, and he was in such good spirits that I don’t think there could have been anything else.’
‘What was your brother’s profession, Mrs Cayman?’
The lady seemed slightly embarrassed.
‘Well, I can’t say I rightly know. Prospecting – that’s what he called it. He was very seldom in England.’
‘You know of no reason which should cause him to take his own life?’
‘Oh, no; and I can’t believe that he did such a thing. It must have been an accident.’
‘How do you explain the fact that your brother had no luggage with him – not even a knapsack?’
‘He didn’t like carrying a knapsack. He meant to post parcels alternate days. He posted one the day before he left with his night things and a pair of socks, only he addressed it to Derbyshire instead of Denbighshire, so it only got here today.’
‘Ah! That clears up a somewhat curious point.’
Mrs Cayman went on to explain how she had been communicated with through the photographers whose name was on the photo her brother had carried. She had come down with her husband to Marchbolt and had at once recognized the body as that of her brother.
As she said the last words she sniffed audibly and began to cry.
The coroner said a few soothing words and dismissed her.
Then he addressed the jury. Their task was to state how this man came by his death. Fortunately, the matter appeared to be quite simple. There was no suggestion that Mr Pritchard had been worried or depressed or in a state of mind where he would be likely to take his own life. On the contrary, he had been in good health and spirits and had been looking forward to his holiday. It was unfortunately the case that when a sea mist was rising the path along the cliff was a dangerous one and possibly they might agree with him that it was time something was done about it.
The jury’s verdict was prompt.
‘We find that the deceased came to his death by misadventure and we wish to add a rider that in our opinion the Town Council should immediately take steps to put a fence or rail on the sea side of the path where it skirts the chasm.’
The coroner nodded approval.
The inquest was over.
Chapter 5 Mr and Mrs Cayman (#ulink_facdd4ec-f72d-512a-a844-e5b1cdd81b89)
On arriving back at the Vicarage about half an hour later, Bobby found that his connection with the death of Alex Pritchard was not yet quite over. He was informed that Mr and Mrs Cayman had called to see him and were in the study with his father. Bobby made his way there and found his father bravely making suitable conversation without, apparently, much enjoying his task.
‘Ah!’ he said with some slight relief. ‘Here is Bobby.’ Mr Cayman rose and advanced towards the young man with outstretched hand. Mr Cayman was a big florid man with a would-be hearty manner and a cold and somewhat shifty eye that rather belied the manner. As for Mrs Cayman, though she might be considered attractive in a bold, coarse fashion, she had little now in common with that early photograph of herself, and no trace of that wistful expression remained. In fact, Bobby reflected, if she had not recognized her own photograph, it seemed doubtful if anyone else would have done so.
‘I came down with the wife,’ said Mr Cayman, enclosing Bobby’s hand in a firm and painful grip. ‘Had to stand by, you know; Amelia’s naturally upset.’
Mrs Cayman sniffed.
‘We came round to see you,’ continued Mr Cayman. ‘You see, my poor wife’s brother died, practically speaking, in your arms. Naturally, she wanted to know all you could tell her of his last moments.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Bobby unhappily. ‘Oh, absolutely.’
He grinned nervously and was immediately aware of his father’s sigh – a sigh of Christian resignation.
‘Poor Alex,’ said Mrs Cayman, dabbing her eyes. ‘Poor, poor Alex.’
‘I know,’ said Bobby. ‘Absolutely grim.’
He wriggled uncomfortably.
‘You see,’ said Mrs Cayman, looking hopefully at Bobby, ‘if he left any last words or messages, naturally I want to know.’
‘Oh, rather,’ said Bobby. ‘But as a matter of fact he didn’t.’
‘Nothing at all?’
Mrs Cayman looked disappointed and incredulous. Bobby felt apologetic.
‘No – well – as a matter of fact, nothing at all.’
‘It was best so,’ said Mr Cayman solemnly. ‘To pass away unconscious– without pain – why, you must think of it as a mercy, Amelia.’
‘I suppose I must,’ said Mrs Cayman. ‘You don’t think he felt any pain?’
‘I’m sure he didn’t,’ said Bobby.
Mrs Cayman sighed deeply.
‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for. Perhaps I did hope he’d left a last message, but I can see that it’s best as it is. Poor Alex. Such a fine out-of-door man.’
‘Yes, wasn’t he?’ said Bobby. He recalled the bronze face, the deep blue eyes. An attractive personality, that of Alex Pritchard, attractive even so near death. Strange that he should be the brother of Mrs Cayman and the brother-in-law of Mr Cayman. He had been worthy, Bobby felt, of better things.
‘Well, we’re very much indebted to you, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Cayman.
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Bobby. ‘I mean – well, couldn’t do anything else – I mean –’
He floundered hopelessly.
‘We shan’t forget it,’ said Mr Cayman. Bobby suffered once more that painful grip. He received a flabby hand from Mrs Cayman. His father made further adieus. Bobby accompanied the Caymans to the front door.
‘And what do you do with yourself, young man?’ inquired Cayman. ‘Home on leave – something of that kind?’
‘I spend most of my time looking for a job,’ said Bobby. He paused. ‘I was in the Navy.’
‘Hard times – hard times nowadays,’ said Mr Cayman, shaking his head. ‘Well, I wish you luck, I’m sure.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Bobby politely.
He watched them down the weed-grown drive.
Standing there, he fell into a brown study. Various ideas flashed chaotically through his mind – confused reflections – the photograph – that girl’s face with the wide-apart eyes and the misty hair – and ten or fifteen years later Mrs Cayman with her heavy make-up, her plucked eyebrows, those wide-apart eyes sunk in between folds of flesh till they looked like pig’s eyes, and her violent henna-tinted hair. All traces of youth and innocence had vanished. The pity of things! It all came, perhaps, of marrying a hearty bounder like Mr Cayman. If she had married someone else she might possibly have grown older gracefully. A touch of grey in her hair, eyes still wide apart looking out from a smooth pale face. But perhaps anyway –
Bobby sighed and shook his head.
‘That’s the worst of marriage,’ he said gloomily.
‘What did you say?’
Bobby awoke from meditation to become aware of Frankie, whose approach he had not heard.
‘Hullo,’ he said.
‘Hullo. Why marriage? And whose?’
‘I was making a reflection of a general nature,’ said Bobby.
‘Namely –?’
‘On the devasting effects of marriage.’
‘Who is devastated?’
Bobby explained. He found Frankie unsympathetic.
‘Nonsense. The woman’s exactly like her photograph.’
‘When did you see her? Were you at the inquest?’
‘Of course I was at the inquest. What do you think? There’s little enough to do down here. An inquest is a perfect godsend. I’ve never been to one before. I was thrilled to the teeth. Of course, it would have been better if it had been a mysterious poisoning case, with the analyst’s reports and all that sort of thing; but one mustn’t be too exacting when these simple pleasures come one’s way. I hoped up to the end for a suspicion of foul play, but it all seemed most regrettably straightforward.’
‘What blood-thirsty instincts you have, Frankie.’
‘I know. It’s probably atavism (however do you pronounce it? – I’ve never been sure). Don’t you think so? I’m sure I’m atavistic. My nickname at school was Monkey Face.’
‘Do monkeys like murder?’ queried Bobby.
‘You sound like a correspondence in a Sunday paper,’ said Frankie. ‘Our correspondents’ views on this subject are solicited.’
‘You know,’ said Bobby, reverting to the original topic, ‘I don’t agree with you about the female Cayman. Her photograph was lovely.’
‘Touched up – that’s all,’ interrupted Frankie.
‘Well, then, it was so much touched up that you wouldn’t have known them for the same person.’
‘You’re blind,’ said Frankie. ‘The photographer had done all that the art of photography could do, but it was still a nasty bit of work.’
‘I absolutely disagree with you,’ said Bobby coldly. ‘Anyway, where did you see it?’
‘In the local Evening Echo.’
